While Frank Sinatra sings Stormy Weather
by Beautiful Shiny People
Summary: "Am I dreaming?" "You tell me, darling." "But you're dead." "How can you be so sure?"


The television's on, but the sound isn't. It's playing some weird fetish porn while in the background, Frank Sinatra is crooning out a love song.

Sebastian sits up from the couch, running a hand down his face with a grimace. Jim sits on the floor, papers strewn over their scratched coffee table; he's scribbling over a crossword puzzle, expression intense but eyes dead. Sebastian stares for a moment, absolutely sure this is just whisky-coma, because Jim is dead and buried.

Dead eyes flicker up and lips that are blue around the edges and crusted with blood stretch to a grin. "Morning sleeping beauty." Jim bites on the cap of his pen, eyebrows furrowing for a moment before he goes back to scribbling on his crossword puzzle. The record begins to skip; _I'm all alone every evening, evening, evening..._

"Am I dreaming?" Sebastian watches as Jim draws a large smiley face in the corner of the newspaper. The criminal hums along to a tune only he can hear, clashing with Sinatra's repeated _evening_. On the television, a blonde is being dismembered by two men in bunny masks.

"I don't know, darling, you tell me." Grey-blue tipped fingers reach out and run lovingly down a blood stained handgun barrel. Sebastian watches, mild annoyance building at the action. Jim never did take care of his guns, especially the ones he stole from the sniper's stash. The record finally jumps forward; _I'm all alone every evening, all alone feeling blue. _"It's flattering that you miss me, Sebby." _Wondering where you are and how you are, and if you're alone too._ Jim grins up at him, teeth cracked from the force of a bullet ripping through the back of his skull; they're stained with dark brown blood.

Sebastian remains silent and Jim goes back to his crossword puzzle. The criminal hums, marking up the page with scribbles and doodles. "What's an eight letter word for 'bountiful flora'?" The sniper grunts, watching Jim's dead hands.

"I don't know. You know I hate crosswords." The criminal bobs his head once and scribbles in the little boxes.

"'Genocide'."

The song is replaced by another. Sinatra's voice fills the messy flat, making the scenes flickering over the television screen (a masked orgy in the blonde's blood) seem almost horrifically sweet. _The love I have for you will never die. Somehow you always keep me guessing, and wondering just how long Ill have to cry._

Jim is grinning his cracked smile, moving up to settle on Sebastian's lap. He smells of dirt and blood along with the aroma of the cologne he had been wearing _that day_; Sebastian clings to him like a cherished teddy, burying his face into the crook of Jim's bruised neck. "Give me a five letter word for 'Pinocchio's kin'."

The sniper mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. Jim's here, Jim's herehereherehere. He's felt so alone; God it hurts to feel this pathetic. "Don't know." He hears the scribbling of a pen on newspaper as Jim clicks his tongue. (And Sebastian is surprised by that act; the roof of Jim's mouth shouldn't be there.)

"'Sheol'."

The sniper rests his chin on Jim's shoulder, staring down at the crossword which has too many scribbles to really make out any words. "Why are you here?" He sounds so broken, _pathetic_ a voice that sounds like Jim says (but it's really Jim who sighs this in sing-song on his lap).

"Trying to complete this damn thing." The pen rips down the front of the paper, splattering dark red ink over the front. "'Saints' bones', dear, seven letters."

"'Armageddon'." Jim snickers softly, writing the word in the blacked out boxes. He shifts on Sebastian's lap, folding his legs comfortably like a cat; he nearly purrs in content.

Jim rests the back of his ruined head against Sebastian's shoulder, giving a semi-sweet kiss to the sniper's neck. It has the scrape of teeth that Sebastian has been missing, along with the wet warmth (but now it's cold) of a tongue smearing over his skin. "Last one. 'Banker's holiday', five letters."

Sebastian lets out a small noise, arms tightening around Jim's skinny middle. "'Holocaust'." A sharp giggle erupts from the criminal, turing the corners of his blue mouth upwards. He shifts so he's straddling Sebastian, kissing him soundly (and roughly) on the mouth. The crossword puzzle lays forgotten on the sofa.

Jim's fingers dig into the sides of Sebastian's face, drawing blood and a hiss of pleasure-pain from the sniper. "You should probably wake up now, sweetheart." Jim drags his cold tongue over Sebastian's mouth; the other man growls and shakes his head. The criminal tuts, tapping him on the nose as if he were scolding a petulant child. "Ah, ah. You still have to do what daddy saaays!"

"You're dead though." Jim cackles, eyes boring into Sebastian's own.

"Am I though?"

The sound of the record squeaking loudly wakes Sebastian.

He stares at the ceiling, bottle of whiskey (nearly finished) clenched tightly in his hand. The television has switched from the DVD to white fuzz, but the sound's off. Frank Sinatra resumes after the record rights itself. _Drinkin' again, and thinkin' of when you loved me. I'm havin' a few and wishing you were here. _

Sebastian sits up slowly, setting the whiskey bottle on their (wait, no. _His._) scratched coffee table. He swallows thickly, running a hand through his hair before his shoulders slump. _Pathetic. But I'm touched, dear. Really and truly; would I lie to you? _

__The record keeps playing._ Making the rounds, Accepting a round from a strangers. Being a fool. Just hoping that you'll appear._

_()()()_

_**All Alone**_

_**Don't Make a Beggar Out of Me**_

_**Drinkin' Again**_

_()()_

_Geh, okay. Entire thing inspired by a scene in the book _Aloha From Hell: A Sandman Slim Novel. _You should read them._


End file.
